


Cold Skies

by ghost_ride_the_wip



Series: A Few Weeks Back [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Lullabies, ManDadlorian, Mando has a soft heart, Storms, and heart eyes for Omera, canon bb yoda fears no man but fanon bb yoda needs hugs sometimes ok disney?, in which i make up space lullabies for my favourite green bean, let Mando pick up his son more 2k19, the Mandalorian for father of the year, the lost weeks on Sorgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21727807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_ride_the_wip/pseuds/ghost_ride_the_wip
Summary: Omera called the storm long before the first clouds formed.“Its going to rain.” She said simply.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Series: A Few Weeks Back [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570162
Comments: 40
Kudos: 434





	Cold Skies

Omera called the storm long before the first clouds formed.

“Its going to rain.” She said simply.

Waist deep in the crystalline waters of a pond, she hadn’t even paused her work, dragging her basket up through the weeds at the pond floor and bringing a parcel of vibrant blue krill to the surface. The rough material of her dress clung to the muscles of her stomach as she turned in the water, a fascinating twist of glistening fabric and tense lines.

The Mandalorian watched her from his seat on the barn porch.

“Looks clear to me” he said, wrenching his eyes away from her. The sky was blue for miles.

“Not for long.” Omera assured him. “There’s a storm a few hours away.”

“How can you tell?”

She looked up at him for the first time all afternoon. The look lasted a moment too long, a tension in the silence between them prickling under the Mandalorian’s skin.

“The water is still.” She said finally. “The air is dry, and the krill are swimming to the bottom. There are signs if you know the land well.”

The Mandalorian nodded, and Omera went back to her work, and both of them pretended there was nothing unusual about the big bad town protector being completely spellbound by a woman fishing for crustaceans.

They were at dinner in the main hut when the first drops started to fall. The Mandalorian was sitting in the corner watching the little one wolf down fresh krill at a table with the other kids. At first it was drowned out amongst the din of the long hall, and he wasn’t sure how long it was before he picked up the new sound from above. A soft patter of rainfall on a thatched roof. He glanced over to find Omera grinning at him proudly from across the room. He smiled back, but of course, she couldn’t see. A slight nod of his head was enough to make her flush and glance away, back to the others at her table. But he didn’t miss the odd look she threw his way as she finished her meal and began cleaning up in the back. As always, he followed, and asked if there was anything he could help with. As always, she put him to work.

The other women always teased him for helping with the washing up. He explained that since he had no skill in krill fishing or farming, he should contribute to the meals they shared with him somehow. The women just chuckled, winking unsubtly at Omera as they watched the armored warrior who had saved their settlement clunking around in the kitchen. The Mandalorian didn’t mind the jokes made at his expense, or the prying questions they asked about his people and his life. He answered where he could, and let them tease him in their good natured way. Mostly, he liked listening to them talk about their lives, their work, their children. The tangle of voices was soothing and melodious, the act of domestic work transformed into something communal and relaxing, a time to unwind and connect at the end of the day. There was beauty to their simple words, the way they shared things so freely and trusted each other with their thoughts and feelings. He didn’t really partake. He didn’t really know how. But they seemed to like having him around.

“Thank you for your help” Omera said when the all clay tableware was clean and ready for another meal tomorrow. She was sweating from the work, a fine sheen to her face and neck, strands of dark hair sticking to the edges of her forehead. She came too close and he let her, unconsciously leaning into her orbit. “Your supper is waiting in the barn.” She said.

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“You're most welcome.”

It was the soft contented smile on her gentle mouth. It was the heat from the boiled water in the washtubs, filling the air with fragrant steam. It was the familiarity of their cordial routine, and the promise of doing it all again tomorrow. The promise of a million tomorrows after that. And it was the loaded air between them, charged with an addictive hesitation, an unasked question in her eyes and a desperate desire to answer making his hands itch.

It was all of this at once that made him step back, just a fraction, enough to remind them of who they were and why they had yet to break this terrible, wonderful tension.

But not far enough to take the wanting from Omera’s eyes. He was glad of the visor, or she would see the same wanting reflected in his.

“I should, go find Winta.” She said dutifully, turning her attention out to the tables where her daughter was waiting. “I left some more blankets for you and the little one,” She glanced back at him. “If the barn is too cold-”

“We’ll be fine, I’m sure.” His voice cracked a bit as he cut her off before she could offer him something he would be all too tempted to accept. No doubt it would have been nothing more than an innocent invitation to sleep on the widows floor, but even that would take him dangerously close to a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

Omera just held back a chuckle, always amused by these clumsy exchanges. “Alright then.”

They came out to find the children all sitting in a circle, chattering away.

“Winta, come put your coat on.” Omera called her daughter. “Its time for bed.”

Winta dragged herself away from the circle and scampered over to her mother. Omera lifted the girls arms up and tugged a thick hooded fleece over her head.

“Night Mando” Winta said, thumping his armor with her knuckles on the way by.

“Night kid.”

Omera shook her head at her daughter and glanced back at the Mandalorian. “Stay dry.” she smiled.

“Goodnight, Omera.”

He watched her go, her arm resting around Winta’s shoulders as they ducked out into the rain. He let out a sigh, wondering at the way he seemed to do all his breathing once she left the room.

“Alright you little womprat” He said, turning his attention down to his own ward. Green ears pricked up at the familiar bass of his voice. “I think we both need some rack.”

He had the kid hug the other children goodnight. Bedtimes were something the other parents in Sorgan had taught him about. Apparently, babies needed a lot more sleep than adults- even the inexplicable 50 year old green ones. He didn’t remember being sent to bed by the Mandalorian’s, as foundlings were treated like grownups from a young age, taught to be survivors, and not to rely on the comforts and luxuries of a home. With them he had learnt to sleep only when necessary to maintain his strength. But Sorgan’s way was different, and children were allowed to be fragile. It was a life that seemed to suit the kid, so the Mandalorian tried to have him in his crib by sundown. The kid didn’t much care for this new habit and made his usual fuss of squawks as he was carried away from his new friends, but he calmed down once they were out of sight, too tired to struggle much. He grumbled into the Mandalorian’s breastplate and laid his head defeatedly against the metal.

There was no sunset tonight. The thick black clouds had brought dusk early. The rain was really coming down now, filling the ponds up to their banks and turning the dirt paths to mush.

“Should have listened to her, huh.” He said as he stood at the hall door, gingerly sticking his armored hand out into the deluge. Water poured down through the cracks in his fingers, running off his palm in a steady stream. With the kid tucked in the crook of his arm and his cape wrapped around to shield the little guy from the weather, he sloshed out into the storm, and made his way toward their barn.

By the time they were inside he was well and truly soaked. The kid was mostly dry, but he was shivering something terrible, his little teeth chattering as the Mandalorian pulled the thin curtain over the open door.

“There we go,” he murmured, unwrapping the kid from his cape and setting him down on the floor. “We might have to get you a hood.” The Mandalorian continued, crouching down to fish out a tiny blanket from the miniature set Omera had fashioned for the kid. He wrapped it around the baby and tucked his ears in until all that could be seen of his face was his big squinty eyes and his little nose. “Better?” the Mandalorian asked. The child made a satisfied coo. “Great”

The rain bucketed down outside, a rhythmic chorus of water cascading over the roof. In the corner there appeared to be a leak, a string of thick droplets trickling across one of the roof beams. He would have to fix that later.

Leaving the kid to shuffle around on the hardwood floor, the Mandalorian attended to his armor. Water slid right off the beskar but the dark shirt and fatigues underneath were a different story. The thick fabric dragged with every movement and would need to be dried. He set about removing the plate and stacking it at the foot of his cot. Without the steel he already felt naked and removing the rest of his gear always set him on edge, but he was safe in Sorgan, he rationalized. With any bandits in a hundred-mile radius scared to death of him and Cara Dune in the next cabin over, he didn’t need to worry. That didn’t stop him feeling completely and pathetically vulnerable as he stripped down to his underclothes and pulled out the sleeping set that had been left for him with the blankets. Until now they had remained unused and he found the tunic far too narrowly cut to fit over his shoulders, but the pants were about the right size. The fabric was coarse, dyed blue like the clothes the rest of the village wore. Like Omera’s dress.

He turned to find the baby staring at up him with quiet fascination.

“How do I look?” He asked dryly. Dressed in only his sleeping pants and socks with his helmet still on, the answer was probably: ridiculous.

The distant rumble of thunder called the kids attention away, ears pricking up and a squeak escaping his mouth.

“It’s a long way off.” the Mandalorian assured him. The kid didn’t look convinced.

He hung his clothes up to dry, and spotted his supper plated on the windowsill.

“Ready for bed?” He asked over his shoulder.

Maybe he was beginning to recognize the phrase, because the kid turned and made a beeline for the door. The Mandalorian gently stopped him with his foot.

“Oh no you don’t.” He muttered, scooting the kid back as he tried to scramble over the foot barring his way, impaired by the blanket. The Mandalorian reached down to the kid and picked him up, carrying him back across the barn to his crib.

The kid mewed up at him, hands reaching up to be lifted out of his little prison, but tiny yawns betrayed his tiredness. Eventually he gave in to his fate and nestled into his bedding. The Mandalorian added an extra blanket and watched the kid build his usual chaotic nest. When he was done, he hunkered down, one pointy ear sticking up from the mess.

The Mandalorian sat down on his own bed; A thin mattress stuffed with straw, pulled over some pellets on the floor. He waited until the kid started softly snoring and then removed his helmet.

The world sounded different without the helmet filtering everything through to him. The rain most of all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d listened to the raw sound of a rainfall. It was peaceful, drumming down on the roof, splashing into the ponds outside, thunder growling in the western hills. He listened as he ate his supper, washed his face at the basin in the corner, and combed his fingers back through his unruly hair. Then, placing his helmet and his blaster at his bedside, he lay down.

It was pitch black when he woke to cry, sharp and panicked in the darkness.

He was up and alert in moments, blaster in hand, squinting into the dark for oncoming danger. But there was no one else in the barn, no presence shifting the air, just rain plummeting down outside and something else; A sniffling sound from the crib.

“You alright?” He asked, feeling his way over to the kid.

Lightning flashed across the room, illuminating everything for a split second, and the Mandalorian caught a fleeting glimpse of the child, trembling in his blanket nest, eyes clamped shut as he wailed. The Mandalorian relaxed. He set the blaster down.

“Hey,” He said softly, leaning over the side of the crib. “It’s ok…”

Thunder crashed through the sky above them. The kid gasped, burrowing deeper into his blankets. The sound shook the walls of the barn. The storm had drifted closer in the night. It must be directly overhead. No wonder the kid was terrified.

“It can’t hurt you.” The Mandalorian explained, reaching down to stroke the lump in the blankets. Beneath his palm the kid was shaking violently. It sent a dull pain through his chest, to know the kid was so afraid. “It’s just weather, just clouds crashing together.”

He wished the kid could understand him, but he didn’t seem to be old enough to grasp speech yet. Another bout of lighting splintered across the sky and he felt the kid tense, bracing himself for the oncoming thunder. The Mandalorian felt powerless as the thunder rumbled and the kid began to sob. This wasn’t a threat he could fight off. He couldn’t scare the storm out of the sky. The kid was shuddering terribly, muffled cries mixing with the thunder and the rain. Deep in the Mandalorian’s memory, something stirred.

Before he could think better of it, he was lifting away the blankets and scooping the kid up. Distantly, he realized his helmet was still by the bed, but he reminded himself that it was too dark for the kid to see anything. Lifting his little body easily, he brought him close, wrapping his squirming body carefully in his arms. The Mandalorian shivered as the kid buried his face in his chest. It was strange to feel warm teary cheeks against his bare skin, where layers of armor usually held the world at bay. The kid wailed into his chest, hands coming up to grasp and scratch at his skin, pleading him to keep him safe. Guided by the ghost of a night he barely remembered, the Mandalorian swayed a little on his feet, and hesitantly rubbed his hand up and down the baby’s back.

“Shhh,” He murmured. “Shh.”

The kid shook against him, so full of fear.

Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. Outside the world roared, and a Mandalorian began to sing.

_“Close your eyes, weary one_

_My watch I’ll keep for you_

_I’ll bring you stars to light the night_

_And I’ll hang the moons”_

The melody sounded strange on the rough edges of his voice, and he could barely remember the tune. He closed his eyes, straining to hold onto the hazy memory of rain on a tin roof, gentle hands holding him close, the smell of damp spices, and the sweetest voice…

In his arms, the child sniffled, his cries fading as he listened.

_“Close your eyes, precious one_

_And when tomorrow comes_

_I’ll bring you skies of blue and white_

_And I’ll hang the sun”_

The song had belonged to his mother. He couldn’t quite remember her face, but he could hear her voice, tender and low in his ear as she rocked him through a storm just like this one. The memory was so old, fragmented with time and buried deep beneath years of a harder, courser life. But still she was there, the warmest person he’d ever known. The part of himself that came from her- the part that was compassionate and gentle- it had never quite been stamped out, though many had tried. The Mandalorians’ that trained him had often called it weakness, a streak of kindness that made him hesitate and question and disobey when his orders didn’t align with what he considered to be the moral choice. And maybe they were right. That compassion was what had brought him here, standing bare-faced in a hut on some nowhere moon singing the most wanted bounty in the galaxy a lullaby. He was an enemy of his former guild. A disappointment to the way of his people.

But the child had stopped crying.

He looked down to find the kids eyes still squeezed shut, still trembling, but quiet now, nose pressed to the Mandalorian’s chest as he heaved in tired little breathes. He whimpered when the thunder rolled overhead, letting out a squeak, but there were no more tears.

He hummed a few more verses, swaying the kid back and forth.

“Your mom ever sing you lullabies?” He asked after a time.

The Mandalorian hadn’t given much thought to the kid’s actual parents, if he had any to begin with. Winta had once asked if the child had hatched out of a swamp pod, and he had been powerless to deny it.

If the kid did have a mother and father, they were probably dead. It was almost better to believe that than entertain the possibility that they were out there, missing him, mourning their lost child.

“Mine did.” It felt strange to fill the silence, but Sorgan had him in the practice of talking, and it seemed to sooth the kid. “I guess I used to be afraid of storms too.” He continued. “And Loth cats. And heights.” He said, his stomach turning as he recalled training with jetpacks as a teenager. Going up had been fine- looking down had been another story. He winced “I think I’m probably still afraid of heights.”

Making his way over to his bed, the Mandalorian sat down, keeping the kid tucked in close. He leaned back against the cool wall, still steadily rubbing the kids back. Lightning flickered across the barn, and the unlikely pair held each other tight.

“It’s ok, to be afraid.” He said simply.

It was a lesson he’d learned a lifetime ago, trembling in a cellar and waiting for gentle hands that would never hold him again. Something he’d learned again the day he knelt before a forge, accepting a mantle and swearing never to remove it front of anyone until the day he died. And he’d learned it a hundred times since, when he was running for his life, when he was shooting his way through a battle, when a beautiful woman smiled at him and glanced away. Fear was part of life. It couldn’t be conquered or ignored or killed. It could only be faced.

The kid would have to learn this in time. With whatever was left of the Empire after him it was going to be a dangerous life, always keeping one step ahead, always looking over his shoulder. The days ahead weren’t going to be clean.

If he could, the Mandalorian would make sure the kid wouldn’t have to learn it alone.

As the inclement weather bellowed on, the child seemed to find some peace.

The Mandalorian made the mistake of trying to place him back in his crib and was greeted with flailing arms and a sharp screech.

“Ok, ok. Shh.” He soothed, bringing the baby back to the comfort of his arms. The kid quieted down immediately. The Mandalorian sighed down at him. “Alright.” He said, wandering back over to his bed. “You can bunk with me tonight. But just this once.” He warned. The last thing he needed was the baby snoring away on his mattress every night.

He lay them down and wrapped a blanket over them both. The kid barely weighed a thing, rising and falling on the Mandalorian’s chest with each breath.

He considered putting the helmet back on, but it was easier to sleep without it, and he usually woke before the kid.

As they settled in, he caught a flash of the kid’s eyes in the dark, peering up at him from beneath the blanket. He couldn’t be seeing much more than a vague outline in the darkness, but the kid squinted up anyway, a paw coming to rest on his guardian’s chin.

The Mandalorian froze. It was the first time someone had touched his face in years. Guilt warred with a peculiar sense of relief, spreading out from the warmth of that little paw through his body, stirring his heart into life until it was beating too fast.

“Sleep now.” he said, tucking the child’s hand back into the blankets.

The child obediently snuggled down, and Mandalorian leaned back on his pillow, staring up at the leaky barn roof, trying to regulate the unruly beat of his heart. Eventually the exhilaration faded, but the warmth remained.

It was ok to be afraid, he reminded himself.

Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled through the sky. The storm raged on over Sorgan, and a child fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> There was a storm over my city yesterday so here we are!  
> I cant believe the AUDACITY of Jon Favreau writing a mini time-jump into episode 4 so we could make all these domestic plot fills. The bitch knows.  
> (Do i make a collection of Sorgan oneshots? Is there a world in which i could possibly resist???)  
> Thank u for the readin'


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